J My Name is Johnny C
by Starry Stungun
Summary: Johnny, blah blah, Devi, blah blah. I have the whole thing written already, but I won't waste space with something no one wants to read so if you want it posted, you have to comment.
1. Default Chapter

Everyone thinks they have a name for everything. Everyone thinks they're original because they don't 'lable' people. It's not cool to label people. Not anymore. That's iso/i two years ago. And then when you decide to fuck them all and wait out high school they call you a loser. And one day you graduate and find out...  
  
Wait a fucking minute...  
  
The real world sucks to.  
  
So you give up. Because you can't judge people, you can only be judged. So you start to kill the people you don't like. If everyone followed my plan, the world would be much more simple. And less crowded, I suppose. Everyone thinks they have to read me. They don't. They should all go to hell.  
  
Go to hell.  
  
--  
  
I don't want to be read. Not the deep internal way. Don't try to figure me out, don't try to analyze me. Don't try to dissect me and figure out why I am the way I am. I'll give you exactly what I want you to read. This. This story. Don't infer, don't think too much into it, don't judge. Don't concentrate on not-judging. In fact, just stop reading.  
  
So I'll tell you exactly what I want you to know. My name is Johnny and I'm 25 and I kill a lot of people that don't deserve to live. I don't kill babies... often... and I don't go looking for trouble. They cross me. I'm not a thing to be feared, unless you fit into two catagories: a)you're human b)you suck. If you're not and you don't, forget that I exist. If you are and you do, um, I guess you'll get yours.  
  
What else do I want you to know? Well, let's start here. You can hate me all you want. You can hate me like Hitler, with zeal and passion and fury and all the logic in the world, hate me for what I am and what I'm not and for ignoring people that cry and inflicting pain, and all the stuff in between, you can hate me because I'm a freak, and you can hate me with all the energy in your body, you can make websites about me and start clubs and follow me around every waking moment yelling obsanities at me, and you still won't hate me more than I do. No one understands that all the hate is being covered. Some people feel it's their responsibility to hate people that need to be hated, and I've beat them to the punch in ten fold. I hate me more than it's possible for you to hate me. So don't bother. Unless of coarse you're human and you suck, in which case I encourage you to piss me off because then you can help me in my favorite hobby. Which, of coarse, is killing assholes.   
  
  
I used to be really goth and really creative. I didn't call myself goth, because to call yourself something, you have to talk to people. I told Nailbunny I used to be goth and he told me to shut up. So I stopped telling everyone what I thought of myself. I used to paint a lot and write a little. But one day my good stuff just went away and when you're pent up with your worst enemy and you have nothing to do with yourself, you start to manifest your nightmares. You dream about killing the people that torment you and you start to do it. You stop caring. I stopped caring. I exist because I have to.  
  
Once, I painted a picture, and first, I painted the canvas three different shades of black. It was a really big canvas, and I remember washing my brushes out and I remembered that color of the water and the color of the sponge. All I could do was compare it to my existance, my being the world's blackest sponge, just soaking up all the evil in the world, and not even doing it well. Seeing things on the news... five year old mollested and buried in the woods, pregnant woman beat to death in alley, mother of three, grandmother of eleven robbed and shot in parking garage... are all evils that I've somehow missed. I can't stand anyone's evil except my own.  
  
You'll find in life, it's easier to blame yourself than the rest of the world. Well... it is if you're me. 


	2. What am I doing up here?

Stupid Devi. Stupid stupid stupid Devi. Don't infer. Don't guess what Im about to say. Don't assume she was the first person I reached out to and fell in love with and then she broke my heart, embittering me even more.  
  
Because I just told you.  
  
Well, she didn't really break my heart. She just kicked my ass when I tried to kill her. What the fuck do you want, exactly? I'm not sure why I did that, and I kind of wish I hadn't. I really wish she was around sometimes, though. Sometimes I stare up at the stars wondering why I'm alone, why I'm the one that's damned. Why can't I be oblivious like the pretty people? Why me? Why me? Why am I alone? I wanted to sit with her under those stars and kiss her. Yeah... me... I'm never supposed to feel that way. Because I'm a freak. I'm a freak and all I do is kill. I'm not supposed to feel lonely or romantic. Or even horney. I suppose no caucasion white male my age has ever wanted to fuck something until he pops, but well, I have.   
  
I thought about raping someone before I kill them. But the people I kill, I rarely regard as good enough entities to want to share a part of my body with. I really don't like the people I kill at all, why would I want to stick myself in them? Perhaps killing a pretty blonde I don't know and then raping the body? No... I'm a lot of fucked up things, but nechrophiliac isn't exactly one of them.   
  
Those stars. There are too many of them. What was God thinking? Why are there so many of those fucking things? It looks like someone sprayed black canvas with white hot mercury and let it burn holes in the material. There were too many of them, they made the world bright at this time of night. You don't want to see anything when you're lonenly.   
  
The particular night that these thoughts entered my mind, I was exhausted. I'm an insomniac, but I was still tired. However when you hate yourself like I do, sleep is a thing to be feared. I wanted to be awake, I wanted to be somewhere with someone. I was begining not to care who. Just not Mr. Fuck or Phsycodoughboy. I see too much of them. And Nailbunny's starting to attract flies. Sometimes I wish I hadn't killed Nailbunny. Sometimes.  
  
You know how I said I stopped caring? My house is a testimony to my contempt for existing. My walls are all white, except, of coarse for one of my basements' walls. I have a bed that I don't use, and a refridgerator with very little food in it, and very little of that food is before it's experation date. Kind of like the poor bastards that come into my house and don't leave. Beyond that, my clothes reflect that they're there only to cover my skinny little body. Black t-shirt, blach jeans, black coat. I have several versions of the above. Why? Not to represent my 'depression' or my 'artistic (yeah right) perogative', but only because that's what I have and I don't feel like buying anything else. As you may have guessed, I'm not one on public appearances. They frighten me, and I frighten them. We get along fine.  
  
I put on my stupid black trench coat and got in my stupid ragtag car and started driving. I didn't know where I was driving to, but if you notice, you can get in your car and drive somewhere so your mind has something to do while you listen to music. Do you know where I found myself? It's the last place I ever expected to find myself. The last place in the entire world. For my entire life I avoided places like this like one who treasures their life avoids the plague. The top of Hessian's Point. Where all the stupid high school fucks go to fuck their stupid high school fucking girlfriends.   
  
I won't go in to high school. Don't guess about it. Don't assume that it was miserable. They didn't beat me up often, not more often than the average geek, maybe five times in four years, when arguments heated up. I didn't have very many friends, of coarse. I generally was ignored by teachers and students alike, and I liked it that way. So high school wasn't my worst memory. But I'll tell you the most valuable lesson I learned there. High school is the midway checkpoint during the journey of ugly hearted children becoming ugly hearted adults. So I just avoided them all. I've never had a girlfriend and I've never been kissed. And I don't care. Most of the time.  
  
And Devi, stupid stupid fucking Devi was pretty and she painted and she wore a lot of black and we were okay together. Except that I don't like and didn't like how dependant on her I'd become in only a few days, how I admired her every move and drank up her every word. So I handled this situation in a way similar to the other situations I come across. I tried to kill her. Of coarse, she got away and I'm okay with that. I haven't really seen her since.  
  
But yeah, there I sat in my fucking car watching the little fucks kissing and fucking in their fucking cars to a lovely view that was being wasted on the little fucks, who weren't paying attention to it. That's how I felt the situation was with Devi. The world was too busy fucking itself up to realize how amazing she is. Or 'was'. Fuck you, grammar.  
  
I don't smoke, but I would have taken it up to have something to do with my hands. I was just as uneasy here as I'd been at home. I quietly congratulated my subconscious on finding the one place in the world that could make me feel worse about myself. I sat there staring at the city lights... a whole city of people whom I could weed out the undeserving of life and take it from them. "Kind of like a modern day Robin Hood, only I take life instead of money. And uh, if I ever figure out a way to redistribute it to the deserving, I'll get on it. My eyes scanned to horizon so my mind could wander. I kind of wanted to paint the horizon, except that the creative part of my mind is long burned out and it's been done. So I just enjoyed it.   
  
The horn sounded from a car next to me. I slowly turned my head, unwilling to even acknowledge this disturbance in my quiet. Some little bastard that had leaned against the car horn in the 'heat of passion' if you can even call it passion. "These little shits will never know passion", I thought to myself. Even so, I needed something to do with my hands. So I got out of the car. I sauntered over to the other car. A black Montey Carlo. I knocked on the window, and the guy in the front seat slowly rolled it down. The girl in the front seat was a cheerleader, probably naked under her boyfriend's letterman jacket, and the boy was wearing a football jersey. Backwards.   
  
"Are you a cop?"  
  
"Are you doing anything you should be arrested for?" I said. I said it as more of an answer than a question.   
  
"Look, fuck you, freak!" the kid snapped at me.   
  
I flip for stupid reasons. I just didn't like the "middle town America" feel the couple reaked of. A football player and a cheerleader fucking in daddy's car... just made me want to vomit. So I pulled the door of the car open and unloaded my handgun into the boys head. I threw the football player into the back of the car, childsafety locked the doors, and drove away with one scared little bitch.  
  
I pulled into my driveway and opened the door of the car. The girl was cussing me out, calling me every name in the book. I just nodded politely. She was crying too. Tsk tsk... she should be more cheery.  
  
If anything about her had been the least bit... abnormal... if she hadn't been blonde haired, blue eyed, 120 pounds of otherwise uncorrupted youth, I probably wouldn't have killed her, because she hadn't done anything to me. But one thing I guess is interesting about me is that little things piss me off. I took her by the hair and drug her into my house and threw her against the wall. She fell to her knees, crying.  
  
"Fuck you! Why are you doing this?"  
  
I ignored her. I grabbed a spark plug and car battery from a pile of mismatched junk on the kitchen table. The spark plug I discarded, but the battery found a special place in my heart for dismemberment. I took it and a knife and retreated to my little friend in the living room. Mr. Fuck stood near the door to the stairs just watching me. I heard him murmur "I like when people die" as I left the room. I probably should have told him to shut up or something.   
  
She sat on the floor. She had indeed been naked under the jacket. All she had on was a thong and the jacket, which was open. I almost wanted to give her some of my clothes to put on before I killed her but... I like my clothes. She had her knees pulled to her chest.  
  
"Why are you doing this?" she sobbed.   
  
I cleared off the kitchen table. "Get on," I instructed. She stared at me mutely. "I said get on the table."  
  
She stood slowly and sat on the table, swinging her legs up. "Are you going to rape me?"  
  
I chuckled to myself. "I like to unwrap my candy honey, and you're not exactly-"  
  
She slapped me. That fucking bitch... slapped me. Me. I sighed internally and smasher her accross the face with the car battery. She wheeled back crying. I grabbed a hammer off the floor and some nails. "Lay down."  
  
She just stared at me. So I grabbed a fist full of blonde hair and imade/i her lay down. She cried some more. So I nailed her hands to the table. I didn't even bother with her feet, she wasn't going anywhere. I cracked the battery open on the kitchen table. She picked her head up.  
  
"W-what are you doing?" she asked.  
  
I stood over her and dripped battery acid onto her face. It splashed onto her cheeks and lips, and I chuckled to myself. She tried to roll out of the way, but the nails held her fast, though I do think she tore skin trying to get away, which made me laugh again. I did this for about and hour, and then I began to grow tired. She was horribly disfigured. It was kind of over.  
  
I sat down so I was eye level with her. "What's your name, by the way?"  
  
I gave her a moment to calm her screams, and asked her again. In a shakey inaudible voice, she mummbled "Sara Johnsen." So I cut her head off. 


	3. A picture I didn't want to see

I painted the wall with her blood for a while. It's not tedious work, it's almost like when I used to paint real pictures with real paint. On real canvas. Before I became this little death whore. Do I make it clear how much I miss my art? I tried my hand at writing once. They say pictures are worth a thousand fucking words, which makes me wonder why if drawing and painting came so easy to me, poetry and stories were so difficult.  
  
I emptied the body of the football player of his blood and then I went through his wallet. It's always nice to know what you've just ended. His name was Daniel Pilluck, his was 18 and he was in the 12th grade at Hawthorn High, the Wildcats, for whom he was the first string quarter back. Born September fifth, 6'3, 174 pounds. If you can point out one thing about him that made him different from every other yuppie yokle in this pit of the world, I'll point out some regret about killing him in .4 seconds. I chewed on this while I worked, and then went to my room to look out the window at the rising sun. I watched it rise for a while, and reflected upon how undeserving human beings are to have such a beautiful sun to light such an undeserving world. After about an hour, I went to watch some TV. I laugh at a lot of media anymore. I adore the stupidy and the security people find in things like this. I really do.  
  
I think around eleven in the morning I fell into a deep dark sleep. I don't dream much. I think if I did, I might slip the rest of the way over the edge. I can't really imagine what that would be like. I consider myself most of the way nuts anyway. I woke up when it was dark. Psycodoughboy stood over me.  
  
"You're my best friend."  
  
"Uh, thanks," I murmured sleepily.  
  
"Will you do me a favor?" I didn't really answer him. "Kill yourself for me?"  
  
"I've tried," I muttered. I sat up. "What fucking time is it?"  
  
"Time for you to kill yourself."  
  
"Okay... fuck you." I sat up and stretched. I went and sat in the basement and stared at my wall. My stupid wall. My fucking stupid wall. I turned and grabbed a switchblade from the ground. One can never underestimate having a switchblade handy. I use it alot. I carve things into my arm. My chest, my wrist, whatever's handy. Pain is one of the few things that live on in me. My talent, my vigor is gone, but pain is still pretty vibrant. My best work is carved directly into me. I cut my arm down the middle, and watched crimson envelope the skin. I cracked my neck and waited for it to drip. I let it drip on the concrete and abosorb into the floor. There are nasty things under the floor that like my blood.  
  
WORTHLESSLIFELESSLOVELESS.  
  
"Shut up," I muttered.  
  
USELESSUNWORTHYPATHETIC L O N E L Y.  
  
It howled 'lonely'. You know... there's never a need to overdramatize lonliness and write poems about it, and to paint it into canvasas and immortalize it. Being lonely in and of itself is enough reason to kill yourself. So I cut into my vein and blacked out on the floor. Simple as that.  
  
I woke up a few hours later. I was stone cold. I was freezing. I was painfully, painfully cold. In fact... I was so cold that I started to cry. I was tired of living and breathing and being bothered by that pesky beating thing in my chest that brought me nothing but pain. I was tired. And I was so, so cold. I couldn't even bring myself to peel my body from the floor. I just sobbed. I found Nailbunny's voice in my ear.  
  
"Don't cry, Nny... don't cry."  
  
But even Nailbunny couldn't help me now.  
  
For no particular reason, I knew who I wanted to see. Don't guess me, don't predict me, don't judge me. It was Devi, of coarse. But I didn't want her to see me, I just wanted to see what she was doing. I wasn't going to stalk her, I was just going to...  
  
Stalk her.   
  
I was lonely. And the truely lonely, stalk. I wanted to see her. I hadn't seen her since she got away. I'd let it go, just not quite her. The fact that there was something out there that I couldn't kill or get my hands on or access or end or manipulate was a little unnerving. I wanted to see what it was up to.  
  
So I got back in my stupid car, my stupid little dark green car and drove to her gallery to remind myself what it was like to create something instead of ending everything. I drove with no music, which I felt myself beginning to loose taste for anyway. I decided long ago that when I loose my taste for music I'm going to kill myself, because there will no longer be any beauty left in the world for me.  
  
I got out and walked across an empty parking garage. I glared at the scum in the corner beating up a younger kid. But I walked away because I hate humanity. Just more evil I haven't absorbed into my polluted soul. I walked in to the gallery, dimly lit, of coarse. Oh, lovely. Thanks fate, I caught that one... Devi's new work was on display. She was in the middle of a crowd of people, which made my life amazingly easier. I knew she wasn't looking for me, and with all the wasted deadheads wandering around, I knew I wouldn't be the only trench coated moron stalking through the dimly lit aisls of angst portraied with different shades of black.  
  
I started to wander around the museum. I made myself look at every picture and disect it until it wasn't beautiful anymore. All the things I used to look for when I painted came rushing back to me... use of texture and shadow, now things I looked for when I killed. Texture of sweaty skin, shadows to hide in... So sad. I grinned sardonically. The farther down the aisl I went, the more striking the images became. Until I set eyes on something so vile and so disturbing the only relief was the frame. Set with dark dark hair shading his eyes and a pathetically gaunt face, his skinny little fram clothed only in a black button down shirt, I stared at myself, scratched into a canvas. It was me on that portrait and Devi D scribbled at the bottom. I turned briskly to leave and found myself staring at Devi. 


	4. I'll paint you a picture

She didn't open her mouth at all to speak, even though I did. She had her arms crossed across her chest. She looked almost like she'd been expecting me and planning to ream me out. She didn't look the least bit scared and I kind of hoped I didn't either.  
  
"What is this?" I demanded at the portrait behind me.  
  
"Image of a madman," she answered like she didn't have time to talk to me.   
  
"Why?"  
  
"Well, I'd already painted anger and hatred, so I painted fear."  
  
I just stared at her. She was so deadpan. She was so beautiful. She was so mad at me. I was so sorry. I was so mad at her.   
  
"Well, you did a nice job. It brings out my ugliness."  
  
She looked down at the floor. "I wasn't going for ugly," she corrected me. I waited for her to inform me what she was going for. I didn't mean to insult her picture, just her inspiration. But I didn't bother to point that out.  
  
"I didn't come here to see you, you know," I said, setting any misgiving straight. As straight as a broken ruler, anyway. "I came here because I like fucking art."  
  
"Okay." I don't think she believed me, if she bothered to think about it at all.   
  
"In fact I'm going now."  
  
"Okay."  
  
I brushed past her. "Hey Devi D," I said, turning my head around.  
  
She turned to face me once before I left. "What, Johnny C?"  
  
"Thank you for painting me. I wish I were a better inspiration."  
  
--  
  
I sat in front of a blank canvas. With a paint brush in one hand, dipped in Football Player Red. That should be a crayon color. Right between Purple Mountains Majesty and Macarony and Cheese... Football Player Red. Made from the finest athletes in the country... tested on animals...  
  
I didn't know what the fuck I was going to paint. Mr. Fuck sat behind me on the floor. He wasn't saying anything and that bothered me more than his constand talking. I knew he was just watching me.   
  
"Paint the cheerleader. Paint her body after you killed her. Paint her screaming before you killed her. Paint her in the front seat of the car."  
  
"Kill yourself," Phsycodoughboy added from the kitchen. I would have flipped him off if I'd chosen to acknowledge his precense.  
  
Nailbunny approved of my new hobby. He liked it more than my killing people and painting walls.   
  
I wanted to paint again more than anything in the world. More than I wanted Devi, more than I hated Phsycodougboy and Mr. Eff, more than anything, I just wanted to spew out something that iI/i thought was beautiful enough to deserve my own praise. Something to prove to myself that I wasn't a waste of existance, something to bring a little fucking joy back into my painful day. Just another day down until I die, I thought miserably.  
  
And I put the brush down and went to sit outside. I laid out on the grass. It was dewy and damp, and I stretched out in it. My shirt stuck to my back. It was cold. But still not as cold as my basement floor. Still not as cold as when I stuck a knife in my arm to feed the monsters in my head. Not that cold.   
  
I fell asleep again outside, making this week the most restfull of my entire life. Except this time, I had a dream. It wasn't a dream, it wasn't a nightmare, it was my life flashing before my eyes. And I'm not going to tell you what all I saw, because I don't want you to infer anything about me. I don't want you to know everything about me. But when I woke up God knows how long after, I went inside and threw up for two hours.   
  
And when I was finished doing that, I slit my wrist open and painted the entire canvas with my blood until I passed out. 


	5. Who was he?

Note: Silverflashpup, I sincerely hope you don't stop reading because I think it gets more tutti frutti... if it becomes untasteful, please do let me know, I don't think it does, but I tried to keep it similar to his character... I hope I did a decent job. I'm trying to watch my spelling.  
  
Thank you, lads and lasses. =)  
  
  
  
  
I fit my own preferances. I'm rarely concerned about pleasing anyone else. I really don't care to be around people, so what do I care if they hate me? I'm a sociopath... and I like it that way. I probably should take better care of myself, though. Oh well. You wouldn't feed your worst enemy either.  
  
I woke up on my living room floor to the doorbell, but when I went to answer it, no one was there. Turning back to my paint setup, Phsycodoughboy was standing on my chair, studying my work.   
  
"You should have used better paint," he recommended.  
  
I shooed him off of the chair, with my foot, and kind of hard. I wanted to kick his little styrofoam head off. I sat on my sofa watching TV. It was just noise. I hardly ever even watched it anymore. It was the final thin string connecting me to a world I probably should never have become part of to begin with. I flipped through the channels.  
  
"... murdered last night in the Second Street Gallery parking garage. Justin Hullin was seventeen year old art patron and had several of his works on display that night. Police say he was beaten to death. As of now the assailants are yet to be identified."  
  
I turned the TV off and threw the remote at it. It hit the glass and bounced off with a crack that told me it was broken. I didnt' care. I rolled onto my other side, feeling nauseus. I didn't know if I was more angry at myself or those little fucks that took my job away. I should probably have killed them. Not necessarily to save 'Justin Hullin', but at least to punish those little bastards. If I ever got convicted of a crime I didn't commit, I swore to God there'd be more hell to pay than that contained in my basement."  
  
The phone rang. I couldn't believe it was still fucking connected.   
  
"Hullo?"  
  
"You're such a prick... such a hypocrite..."  
  
"I told you I wasn't even there to see you," I snapped at Devi. She sounded like she might have been crying. Which made me wonder, but not enough to ask her.  
  
"I can't believe you. What did he do, get in your line of vision while he was unlocking his car? Look at you wrong? Did he fucking sneeze in front of you? What terrible crime did he commit, Johnny? I'm just dying to know. Or have you been spying on me again, you son of a bitch!?"  
  
"Devi, I'm hanging up now. Call me back when you feel like explaining what's wrong with me now."  
  
"If you hang up I'm going to kill you!" she snarled.  
  
I believed her. I stayed on the line but silently, waiting to hear what I'd done now.  
  
"Well?" she demanded.  
  
"What do you want me to say? I don't even know what you're fucking talking about."  
  
"Justin!" she snapped. "What did he ever do to you??"  
  
"Justin Hopkin or whatever the fuck?"  
  
"Yeah... Justin Hopkin or whatever the fuck," she growled sarcastically.  
  
"I don't know, two guys were beating him up in the garage when I pulled in."  
  
"Fuck you, Johnny! A murder happens when you're around and you didn't commit it?"  
  
"When I pulled in there were two jocks beating the shit out of some skinny little kid,"I replied. "I just wanted to glance around and be out of there, I wasn't in the mood for killing at the moment."  
  
"Do you know who that 'skinny little kid' was? What am I saying, of coarse you do, you've got nothing better to do than follow me the fuck around all day," she went off.  
  
I sighed. "No, Devi. Enlighten me, who was this poor, poor victem?"  
  
"Fuck you," she said blankly and hung up on me.  
  
I sat down on the sofa. I scratched my head and stood back up. I went to the refridgerator and made myself a sandwich. Then I threw it away. I don't eat much. Then again, I don't do many things that require energy besides kill. Then I got in my car and drove to Devi's house. I hardly ever care about stupid things, but this bothered me.  
  
I knocked on her door. I heard the lock slide open, I heard her wait a couple of seconds, and then she opened it. "What do you fucking want?"   
  
"Who was the kid?"  
  
"Fuck you, Johnny! Just leave me alone!"  
  
"Who was Justin?!" I demanded. "Tell me!"  
  
"You know goddamn well who Justin was!"  
  
"WHO WAS HE??" I yelled at the top of my godforsaken black lungs.  
  
"He was my boyfriend!" And she promptly slammed the door in my face. And with that I drove back home.  
  
--  
  
I sat on my bed. I found it kind of ironic that the week in which I got the most sleep was the week I hadn't even been in my bedroom. But I sat on it regardless. My mattress squeaked. It was old. Probably as old as I am. I laid down. My eyes were heavy but my mind wasn't clear. Only two things induce sleep in me: extreme exhaust and a clear mind. And I was battered down. I couldn't go as long without rest as I used to be able to.   
  
My mind was cloudy and angry, and so was I. I just kind of stared at the ceiling. My face was hot, too. I was mad at Devi. I was really mad at that kid for dying. I was mad at myself for caring that Devi was mad at me. I was mad at Phsycodoughboy and Mr. Fuck for existing. And most of all I was mad at that canvas for not having anything good on it yet.   
  
I fell asleep in a fitfull manner. I didn't want to dream. I remember thinking that as I drifted unwillingly into my subconcious. It was like a bargain. "Alright, I'll go along with this as long as you don't make me dream." 


	6. Z?

Note: You're just gonna really really have to forgive me for this one. I'm really, really sorry. ::hangs head::  
  
--  
  
  
I stood at Devi's front door again, only this time I did not knock. I just opened it and went in. I sat in her living room and waited for her to come out. I didn't know exactly what I was waiting for, because I never had a guarentee that she was going to come out, and even if she did, I had no guarentee she wouldn't throw me out.   
  
After a long time, I don't know how long, she did come out of the kitchen. She was dressed up. I don't remember how, I just know she was pretty. Even if I did remember, I probably wouldn't tell you, because I don't care much for clothing unless it's on my bedroom floor, and I can't stand people that describe clothing for paragraph upon paragraph. Guess what, middle American waste pile? It really doesn't matter that fucking much!  
  
She was really pretty. I stood up realizing that I was fucking dressed up too. (To see what I was wearing, read above paragraph. Thank you, -Managemnet.) She came over to me and gave me her hand and we left.   
  
We went to a party, I think. It was full of all the people I ever killed. It was in a pretty house but Devi and I were the only people dressed up. We danced. We danced together and we danced with other people, and when the slow songs came on, we danced together some more. This went on for a pretty long time, until my favorite song, Got You Where I Want You came on. (See also, The Flys). We danced together. And we were really fucking happy. Which was new to me. It was a weird feeling that I'd pay any money for to have a drug to induce such a thing again. And I took her chin in my hand and I made her look at me, and I went to kiss her. And just as I did such a stupid thing  
  
She stabbed me in the stomach.  
  
I fell back from her, but she kept her arm locked tightly around my thin frame. She did it again, and it hurt. I find myself kind of numb to such violence, but it struck me like The Shining strikes a five year old: full of fear and pain. Very, very clearly. She stabbed me twice more and threw the knife aside. She unzipped my fly and kissed me on the neck, and whispered very purposefully in my ear, "Johnny C, I do believe you'll be above the stars soon."  
  
I came very quickly, humiliatingly enough (feel privilaged I told you that) and I woke up in a cold sweat on my bed, trembling like that cheerleading bimbo. For a moment, I'd felt like I had something to live for, and it'd been taken away. I felt like a hundred people who I took away everything from. And laying on that bed shaking like a scared rabbit, I finally understood what it was like to loose something. I lost my last shred of humanity because  
  
I still didn't care. 


	7. I should be so lucky

The first thing I did, of coarse was go for my gun. I had reached a new level of not wanting to live. I'd indenitified my problem... I was out of control and it was only now that I'd begun to care. I shot off a whole round in my head and of coarse, of coarse, nothing. I just sat there on the floor shaking for a long time. The sun came up and I still sat there. The door bell rang and I still sat there, unable to move.  
  
Ding dong.  
  
Knock.  
  
Creeeeak.  
  
"Johnny?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Fuck you, you never go anywhere, come down here!"  
  
Silence.  
  
Step step step step step step thud.  
  
"Johnny?! I mean it get your skinny ass our here."  
  
Step step step step creeeeak.  
  
"What's wrong with you?"  
  
I didn't answer her, I just kept my head down. Blood gushing everywhere from my past attempts at mutilation, I couldn't even bare to look at her, my dream flashing through my head. I wanted to kiss her and I wanted her to get away from me. I wanted a break, I needed a hiatus from my constant tormet, or else...  
  
"Johnny, what the fuck is this? What are you doing? What happened?"  
  
Something like 'go away' eminated from my throat and she kneeled down to me.  
  
"Fuck. You." She shook me. I curled up tighter, my head down, eyes shut, trying to ignore her.  
  
"Get away, Devi, get away. I'm gone, I was going and now I'm gone. I've lost it. There's something painfully missing in my head and I'm snapped. I'm gone. I tried but I'm gone and I can't stop it anymore. I'm lonely and I'm sick and I'm cold, Devi, I'm so fucking cold," I blurted out. One second I wasn't talking, the next I was spilling my guts like Sara Johnsen or whatever her name had been.   
  
She sat me up.  
  
I shook my head. "Gone, Devi, it's gone, it's gone."  
  
She took my chin in her hand and gently slapped my cheek. I opened my eyes, which must have been kind of horrific for her because they were bloodshot and sat over dark circles. She took me by the shoulders and stood me up but I couldn't stay standing, I just curled back up. It was like my last bit of support was gone.  
  
Still not any calmer, I looked directly into her eyes and blurted out: "Have you ever been so alone that you're not even close to yourself anymore? Have you, Devi? Have you ever?"  
  
She shook her head slowly. "What did they do to you?"  
  
I didn't answer her.   
  
It was like a train had hit me, square in the face. I was guilty of 1000 odd murders. I collapsed right there, on the floor, face down and cared no more about it.  
  
--  
  
I awoke hours later. It was dark again. I was alone again too. Dark and alone followed eachother like lost dogs. I hated it. What a cycle, what a thing to live for. What a thing. I was cold all over again.   
  
I got to my feet. I wasn't stable. So I went to the other least stable person in the tricounty area.... Squee.  
  
Squee was asleep when I got there. His window was unlocked, though. Good boy. I climbed inside and perched myself on the end of his bed. He was very very peaceful, a beautiful contrast to the last few days of my life. I watched him sleep for a while until it was as good as sleeping myself.   
  
When the daylight broke, I went for a walk in the miserable cloudy light of 5:00 in the morning. I went for a walk, to Devi's house. I knocked on the door and she opened it to me, more hastily than before.  
  
"Johnny, how are you? What are you doing here?"  
  
"May I come in, Devi D?" I asked politely. And she let me.  
  
I sat on her sofa, quietly. She sat opposite me on an armchair and waited for me to say something. I just kind of stared at her with big eyes, not sure what I wanted to say. I was just glad to be around something alive.  
  
"I, uh," I coughed to clear my throat, "something really bad happened to me. I woke up yesterday morning, or maybe it was this morning... the days are beyond running together, I woke up and the worst thing in the whole fucking world happened to me, Devi D. I woke up and I was normal. I was a normal human being in a house full of torment that I caused. I woke up in a puddle of blood and bodies and... I think that if I was normal, it could very possibly have driven me back out of my mind... I think I've lost my mind all over again. Devi, I can't handle it anymore, and I can't even kill myself. There is nothing for me to do... there is nowhere for me to go..."  
  
I said this all without the slightest hint of emotion. I had nothing left to show for all my... torment... I was done.   
  
I looked up at her to see her enthralled with my hand gestures and facial expressions. "Normal?" she asked?  
  
"Yeah... normal," I replied, unable to look at her.  
  
She came across the room and felt my forehead. "Cold. Ice cold." She touched my arms and came to the same conclusion, so she pulled my shirt up and felt my stomach. Yep, cold all over. Suprise.  
  
"Why now? What happened?"  
  
"Well Devi D, it came to me in a vision," I chuckled. "Okay, I had a dream that I had something to loose and I lost it... and then I realized that I still didn't care about how many lives I took, and then I broke myself down to normal. Unfortunately, being where I was, I lost it immediately... I don't know what to do with myself... I'm so fucking miserable."  
  
"What about your urge to kill? Gone? Present? What are we looking at, Johnny C, help me out here."  
  
"I don't know... How would I know..." I put my head in my hands. "I hate guilt. It's worse than any kind of rage, any kind of lonliness I've ever felt."  
  
"Guilt?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Did you kill Justin?"  
  
"No I did not. I swear."  
  
She looked me in the eye and said "I believe you, fucker." I smiled.  
  
"Fuck you," I grinned back at her.  
  
"Have you slept lately?"  
  
"Yeah... I have."  
  
"Wow. Props to you. Have you eaten lately?"  
  
"Not really."  
  
"Perhaps you should. You're still human."  
  
"I should be so lucky." 


	8. Mixing Blood

--Last Chapter, but certainly not my last story. Love me!--  
  
I sat in front of my bathroon mirror cleaning my work tools. I stared deep into my cold dark eyes, giving myself the same look I gave passer-bys, wondering what they saw when they looked at me. What she saw.   
  
Squeek squeek squeek. The sound of cloth on metal suprised me, and I threw the clean instrument to the side. There was blood on my hand. Blood on me. Imagine that. I held my hand up to the light. It was her blood and my blood. I'd cut myself cleaning and her fluid remained from this night's happenings. I wished to finish before sunrise, but looking out the windwo I realized that was not going to happen. But our blook mixxed on my hand and then continued its way through my viens.   
  
I'll never be able to forget her expression, and I'll probably never sleep again. What a girl. What a girl, that Devi D. She tried her damnest to save me, but what can you do? Some of us just aren't meant to be saved. Call me naive, call me a quieter, but I'm starting to believe I'm one of those people.   
  
She held my hand for hours, and in the end, I just couldn't handle it. The inside of my head hurt, and everything pounded, and I just killed her. I don't feel better, but to be truthful, I don't feel worse. I feel like I'm comming to terms with my inhumanity, and if that's so wrong, then so be it. I'm outta here.   
  
I did have one vice that I cared to secure before I left. I had no paper in my house, nor any writing utensils, so I bought some. I wrote Squee a quick note explaining that I was leaving that I'd be back. I would definately, definately, be back.  
  
I slipped the note under his bedroom window, but I broke it before I left to call his attention to it in the morning. I watched him sleep for a while, marveling in the innocence of youth, but then I left. I packed my clothing into my car and I drove off.   
  
Just remember that you don't know me. Don't assume anything about me, don't second guess me. Because you don't have a clue.  
  
--Fin--  
--Look for my sequel later on =D-- 


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